


For form's sake

by soupdragon



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:44:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupdragon/pseuds/soupdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What about your job went less well and why?"<br/>"Well, I got shot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For form's sake

John Reese glanced again at the piece of paper in his hand, hoping that he was hallucinating—a rare psychotropic in his espresso, perhaps?—or that The Machine had developed a quirky, practical-joking sort of sentience.

"I'm sorry, Finch, I don't quite understand..."

Harold, the bastard, somehow twinkled at him without moving a facial muscle.

"A performance review, Mr Reese. We've been working together for a year now, and I think it's important for both of us to receive feedback. Any potentially problematic issues should be addressed rapidly lest they start to fester. Did the Agency not believe in SMART objectives?"

Reese refrained from pointing out that the Agency's approach to underperformance was more likely to involve an ammo-cranial nexus. For a reclusive billionaire operating outside the law, Finch was surprisingly distressed by tales of state-sanctioned brutality. Before he could think of an alternative reply, however, his boss continued.

"Of course, one should normally give notice of any appraisal, allowing the employee a week to prepare. Would you like a week to prepare, John?"

Reese was fairly sure that a week's preparation would lead only to a catastrophic outburst of honesty on one of their parts, so he gave Finch his most obvious fake smile, said "Not at all, _Harold_ ", and went back to mentally listing the 27 ways he could kill his boss using only office stationery.

He dragged himself from contemplation of a particularly inventive—and painful—method using two rubber bands and a pencil sharpener in time to hear "…agree on your job description?"

"Protect the innocent and uphold the law?"

Finch quirked an eyebrow at him. "Well, I think that might actually be Robocop's job description, Mr Reese"—not for the first time surprising John with his awareness of popular culture. Clearly he didn't _just_ go to subtitled films. Finch steepled his fingers. "Do you think of yourself as an indestructible half-man-half-machine who uses ultra-violence to clean the streets of crime? Perhaps," he added hastily, as John opened his mouth to reply," we should move on. Let me see....Do you consider yourself to be a team player?"

"A team....? Finch, in case you hadn't noticed, there aren't exactly a whole group of us doing this." OK, Reese had to concede that Carter and Fusco had proved their worth on more than one occasion, but he wasn't about to get all mushy about it. Admit that they were a team and Finch might suggest a team-building exercise, and that could only lead to gun-shot wounds.

As if confirming his fears, Finch scribbled a note on the form.

"Do you value team interactions?"

He valued putting the fear of God into Fusco on a regular basis, but he wasn't about to admit that. And, in truth, Reese valued more and more his "team interactions" with Harold. That voice in his ear, calm, competent, providing information, directions and wry commentary. Pondering this, he said "yes" before he'd even realised he had spoken. It was hard to say who was more surprised—Finch or himself.

"Good. Well....good. So, moving on to, errr, customer focus. Do you feel that you understand who your customers are, and do you respond proactively to customer needs?"

Reese gaped at him. Luckily Finch hadn't felt the need to put air-quotes round any part of that sentence. Otherwise John would actually have had to kill him. The incredulity must have shown on his face—or maybe the latent violence—because Finch looked ever so slightly flustered, and said "perhaps not. Maybe we should skip this section and move on to part B?"

"B as in bull...?"

Finch masked the completion of the sentence by rustling his papers loudly.

"So, what went well last year and why?"

John coughed to mask his discomfort. Part B was clearly going to be no easier than part A. "I guess I rescued a few people."

Finch awaited some elucidation. When none was forthcoming he sighed ever so slightly, and said "Really, Mr Reese, you do yourself a disservice. 100% of potential victims saved. 97.2% of potential perpetrators apprehended. I would say that was well above industry standard. If there were a standard. Or indeed an industry."

That previous discomfort, Reese decided, was just a scintilla, an amoeba of embarrassment compared with what he was feeling now. Clearly he didn't react that well to praise. But hey, that clearly didn't matter because Finch was moving on to matters less praiseworthy.

"What went less well and why?"

"Well, I got shot."

He had been aiming for facetious, but a shadow passed over his boss's face. Finch didn't do grand emotions, John had decided—more like micro-emotions. But in some ways they were just as easy to read. He cast his mind back to the shooting. In truth, he didn't remember that much about the initial period—too hopped up on pain-killers and antibiotics—but he did have a vivid recollection of coming to in a safe-house bed, Finch beside him, asleep, in a chair that would have crippled someone even without, well, crippling injuries already. He didn't want to dwell on that—not here, not now. "Could we come back to that one, perhaps?"

"Of course, Mr Reese. Let's see. What are your strengths?"

"I'm good at killing people." John consciously pushed his voice down a register. He'd been told the effect was terrifying—hell, it had actually made one insurgent piss himself. On the mild-mannered book collector in front of him it had precisely zero effect.

Harold merely raised an eyebrow to indicate he should continue. "OK, I have plenty of experience in tracking people, in infiltrating gangs, in finding people who don't want to be found, as well as people who are being unwillingly hidden away by others. I have extensive weapons experience, and I can extemporise if need be."

Finch beamed at him. "All true, John. To which I would add courage. You are one of the bravest people I know."

Reese suddenly feared that he was blushing. And that it would be clear to the man sitting opposite him why. Awkwardly, he scanned the next question. Finch, miraculously, took the hint, and moved on.

"What are your weaknesses?"

John thought about his supposed courage. And went for it. "You."

So much for micro-emotions. Finch actually flinched at that one. "Of course, Mr Reese. I quite understand. I'm afraid I lack the training and the, er, inclination for field work. I'm sure I must be a trial to you."

It had become apparent to Reese some time ago that he did not deal well with the idea or the prospect of Finch in physical pain. Apparently emotional pain was equally unwelcome—another insight.

"Finch, for God's sake—that's not what I meant. I meant, well, like Archimedes. Give me a lever and I'll move the world. I thought it was obvious. I won't do anything that puts you in danger. And I won't do this without you. I can't."

Finch blinked twice at this presumably unexpected display of emotional honesty. "Well, I suppose that answers the 'what can your manager do to support you' question," he huffed. "For what it's worth, Mr Reese, I feel the same. Though I do seem to put you in danger with distressing regularity."

They both fell silent for a moment. John, generally comfortable with silence, broke it anyway. "You know, Harold, I don't think we're really facing any festering issues"—Finch gave a small smile—"How about we leave off the appraising and go get a beer? Or a not-beer."

Finch's smile was broader now.

"Just one thing."

"Yes, Mr Reese?"

"Do me a favour—don't file a copy of my appraisal with HR."

**Author's Note:**

> I had a choice between writing up employee appraisal forms and writing POI fanfic. Guess what won.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my awesome beta, unbelievable2. Any deficiencies are entirely my fault.
> 
> Talking of deficiencies, I'm a Brit, which means that I've only seen season 1, dammit (though I have read bits about season 2), and I use British English rather than US. It's entirely possible that US firms have personnel departments rather than Human Resources departments, as over here. Sorry if anyone is mystified by that reference.
> 
> All you lucky North Americans - enjoy the season finale tonight....


End file.
